He had been looking toward the yacht as he spoke, but now he turned toward the girl. She was crouching upon the ground, her face in her hands, her slender figure shaken by convulsive tears.
He came toward her and, kneeling, laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Nadara!" he said gently. "Why do you cry, child? What is the matter?" But she only shook her head, moaning.
He raised her to her feet, and as he supported her his arm circled her shoulders.
"Tell me, Nadara, why you are unhappy?" he urged.
But still she could not speak for sobbing, and only buried her face upon his breast.
He was holding her very close now, and with the pressure of her body against his a fire that, unknown, had been smoldering in his heart for months burst into sudden flame, and in the heat of it there were consumed the mists that had been before the eyes of his heart all that time.
"Nadara," he asked in a very low voice, "is it because I am going that you cry?"
But at that she pulled away from him, and through her tears her eyes blazed.
"No!" she cried. "I shall be glad when you have gone. I wish that you had never come. I—I—hate you!" She turned and fled back up the valley, forgetful of the little packet Thandar had brought her, which lay forgotten upon the ground where she had dropped it.